


I Don't Know A Woman

by ahimsabitches



Category: Carol (2015)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7534726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahimsabitches/pseuds/ahimsabitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prose poem about Carol and Therese.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Know A Woman

I don’t know a woman named Carol.

But I know a force of nature, gloved in glory and coated in billowing beauty so rare it’s sacrosanct. Who looks at me with eyes that level cities. Whose hands travel the continent of my skin in prayer, for I am her hallowed ground.

She is a demon with a cigarette resting between fingers dipped in blood, the blood of all those who made her cry. 

She restrung my heart with a few inkstrokes, restacked my spine with a wandering touch. Rewrites her own name, over and over, on the little holes in my bones.  

My name is Therese, but she rewrote that too. Only she can say my name now. It only rings true from her lips, which shine with the blood of all those who would ever do me wrong.

_My angel, flung out of space…_

We aren’t angels. I’m certainly not. All I am is her creature, and all she is is an empire.

She flung me out into space, cold and dark and aching, and I died every single time I drew a breath that did not taste like her. Like perfume and cigarette smoke. I died, because no breath that was not her was no breath at all. And later she told me I was flourishing.

So I was.

So I did.

So I am. 

On winter mornings she slides the Santa hat onto my head and a kiss onto the back of my neck and I am warm.

On spring mornings we drink coffee and laugh about guns and notions. We can laugh about it now, because I paint my lips red and when I smile there are waiting teeth more frightening than a gun to anyone who would cross her. 

I don’t know a woman named Carol.

But I know a love with many faces. All of them have sly blue eyes and a voice that’s deep and rich as silt on a riverbed. It pulls me under and I go, oh, I go willingly into the flowing silk of her embrace.

She inhabits every photo of her I take. The camera does not steal her soul; it gives her more and more and more until it can’t help but spill into my chemicals and somehow her smile is always red and her eyes are always blue even when the world is newsprint grey.

I am not a woman named Therese.

I am a galaxy wrapped in skin, and she made me this way. She remade me this way.

Space is no longer cold and dark and aching. It is alive with our stars.

_My angel, flung out of space…_


End file.
